could hear the wonderful strains of the organ. 

Marie stopped to listen—she loved music, and Chris stopped, too, though he fidgeted restlessly, and drew patterns with his stick on the dusty path at his feet. 

When they walked on again he said abruptly: 

"We've got on very well since you came home—eh, Marie Celeste?" 

Her dark eyes were raised to his face. 

"Oh, Chris! Of course!" 

He frowned a little. 

11 "I mean—do you think we should always get on as well?" he asked, with an effort. 

11

She was miles away from understanding his meaning, but something in his voice set her heart beating fast. When she tried to answer, her voice died away helplessly. 

Christopher looked down at her, then he said with a rush: "The fact is—I mean—will you marry me?" 

Marie stopped dead. All power of movement had deserted her. A wave of crimson surged over her face, rushing away again and leaving her as white as the little rose which she wore in her black frock. 

Chris slipped a hand through her arm. He was afraid that she was going to faint. He was feeling pretty bad himself. 

"Well, is it so dreadful to think about?" he asked with a mirthless laugh. 

"Dreadful!" She found her voice with a gasp. The sudden rapture that flooded her heart was almost unbearable. But for his arm in hers, she was sure she would have fallen. 

There was a seat close by, and Chris made her sit down. He sat beside her and stared at his feet while she recovered a little, then he looked up with a strained smile. 

"Well, do you think you could put up with me for the rest of your life?" he asked. 

Marie's face was radiant. Nobody could ever have said then that she was not pretty. Her eyes were like stars. She seemed to have blossomed all at 

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